This Is the Place We Remember
by Ma Chat
Summary: Nothing guides me here. -This is the place where younger men are old.- Wincest


**notes: **Haven't submitted anything here in forever. Yeesh. Anyway, thought I would, just out of boredom. I've gotten into Supernatural, and this is my first piece for the fandom, so don't comment too much on how out of character it may be. Reviews are lovely, thanks. (Supernatural is not mine.)

* * *

_Nothing guides me here. (These are the rooms where younger men are old.)_

* * *

He's not really sure about how he found himself in this situation, and he probably won't for a long while, and this is something he knows. He knows that the palms of his hands are sweaty, and so is the rest of him, and that the room feels hot because someone must have turned the heat on. Also that he is having trouble breathing at the moment, certainly due to an explainable lack of oxygen. But it isn't explainable, any of this.

And more than anything, Sam can't figure out for the life of him why he is staring up into the eyes of another man, why he is pinned to the bed beneath his older brother.

Sam can remember, though. He remembers stumbling into the hotel room, exhausted beyond words, with Dean tripping in at his side. He had carried him to the hotel, to the room, because his brother was drunk and because his brother was a _moron. _Of course, Dean had been drunk before; Dean liked to drink. But it was ridiculous for him to get carried away with the alcohol tonight, and right after they had come to this town.

It didn't seem fair to him then that he had been out scouring the place for any helpful information while his brother got hammered in the first bar he could get his stupid little paws on. Luckily for Sam, Dean decided not to take his car for a spin and sightsee, or whatever the hell he would be doing after surely too many beers, but instead fainted the moment he staggered into the vehicle.

Sam made the decision to not dwell on the humorous fact that Dean was limp in his seat, slouched over with his face pressed awkwardly against the steering wheel. Irately, he shoved Dean into the passenger seat, yanked the keys from his pocket, and drove from the parking lot with an indignant huff. Of course, he wasn't going to leave his brother there. Though at the moment he had seriously considered doing just that.

It would show that nitwit. He was always so ignorant and needed to be taught a lesson, Sam thinks, has always thought.

It was past midnight when Sam pulled into the hotel parking lot. More like motel, actually; the place was an outright dump. But it was affordable, and they would most likely be staying for only one or two days (two, if Dean needed an extra day to recover from his latest act of stupidity). It would do. However, getting Dean into the room was an ordeal on it's own.

"Dean." Sam prodded the man in his side, a rough jab. He spoke in a whisper at first, then increased his volume when he earned no response. "Dean, wake up." Still nothing. With a scowl spreading across his features, he leaned close to Dean's ear and shouted, and shook him crudely by his shoulder.

Groaning, Dean wiped a hand over his face and shook his head. He did this repeatedly and loosely mouthed the word no. Sam rolled his eyes and exhaled a breath, almost as though he hadn't expected the man to wake up. But he did expect him to awaken, and he knew that, and he did not want to believe otherwise. "Come on. We're at a hotel, and I'm not carrying you inside."

This was only the truth. His eyes cracking open, Dean looked at Sam with a clouded gaze; he was smirking. Scoffing at this, Sam got out of the truck, slammed the door, and opened the door on the passenger side. Wordlessly he pulled Dean from his seat, the man nearly falling from the vehicle, and wrapped one of his arms around his neck. Holding firmly to Dean's waist, he started for the hotel, murmuring under his breath about how he always gets stuck in this situation.

Once inside, Sam checked into the cheapest room available; no need for a suite or anything, if this rundown place had such a thing. Dragging Dean into the room, kicking the door open once the it had been unlocked and cracked, he gave a small grunt. Dean made somewhat of a chuckle at this and staggered over to the bed, falling back on it with a grin sprawled across his face.

"This is not funny." Sam, unlike Dean, was not smiling. In fact, he looked outright pissed. "We were supposed to be _working_. Five people have been reported missing here since Monday!" He stepped closer to the bed, glaring. But this didn't seem to phase the other in the slightest. So, with an impatient noise, he pulled Dean into a sitting position, yanking him upright roughly by the collar of his shirt. "Do you even care anymore? What the _hell _is your problem? Honestly, Dean, if this is how it's gonna be from now on, then I don't think--"

But his sentence went unfinished, was interrupted by the force of Dean's lips on his own, silencing him immediately. It lasted but a second, and Sam was left in a whirlwind of silence; his head was spinning. He tried to form words but couldn't. He tried to make sense of his thoughts, but everything seemed so hazy.

"_Hush_, you. So many _questions_."

A hot breath on his neck, a whisper in his ear. He hardly noticed the hands on his shoulders pulling him forward, closer. _Closer_. It felt like something had sucked the air out of the room, and it made him breathe heavily, and what had stolen all of the oxygen? His eyes were closed and he didn't know why; the skin on his neck burned from the words maybe, or maybe the breath.

The breath is what had stolen the air. Those lips. They were speaking.

And Sam was being pulled closer again, and he was almost on top of Dean by now. Why wasn't the guy complaining about a headache? Sam wondered this but didn't wonder long, because then he was straddling Dean's waist in a sitting position and could feel both of Dean's arms wrapped against his waist. Strong arms. He shuddered once and felt lips on his neck. "So many questions," he heard Dean repeat.

It was in a voice he had never heard before.

"Dean--" But the rest was a blank, and Sam couldn't find words. He didn't want this, didn't want this closeness. Didn't want Dean's lips on his skin, opening slightly, pressing closer against him, _into _him. But he _did _want it, and he wanted it so badly. Had always wanted it, but it was something forbidden to him, taboo. How could he ever want such a thing from another man, from his _brother_?

He could never imagine that Dean would want such a thing. And he didn't now, even, just was feeling the lingering effects of the alcohol. It messes with your brain, Sam knew that, and he wouldn't let it force him into believing that Dean actually wanted to be doing this, actually wanted to be sliding his hands up Sam's shirt and telling him not to squirm so much.

But Sam couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop thinking, and these thoughts were good ones and these thoughts were _bad_. Dean looked good to kiss; he knew that he was a good kisser, had seen him kiss before, and his lips tasted good, too. But he didn't really think this, because of course Dean didn't taste good. People don't have tastes.

But Dean did.

He didn't like this thought, the older, because he just wanted Sam to hold still, didn't want him moving around in his lap so much. Groaning a bit and then scolding his brother ("Why don't you ever listen to me?" he says and has said before, and Sam says, "Why don't you ever listen to me?" too), he pulled off the shirt, such an annoying thing. And he could see Sam's skin, could see Sam, less things standing between himself and the younger, now, between himself and that _skin_.

Sam lost his mind when he felt himself being pushed, flopped over, and his head and body was slammed against the bed and he almost made impact with the headboard. But Dean was there, on top of him within seconds and pulling him down, down, _closer_. Hot breaths were there again, those lips, and Sam's back arched against the mattress, and old bed, one that has probably been slept on for more years than he can count on his fingers.

_I don't want this, _he told himself, _but I want it. _

How does one end up in such a situation? And now he's under his brother and he can't breathe, and it's hot and he can't see, either. He must be going blind, because he can't see, because all that fills his vision is Dean, and that is all that fills his mind as well. The palms of his hands are sweaty, and he clenches and unclenches them. Dean's hands are on his own, grasping them, locking all of the fingers together. Sam likes Dean's hands because they aren't as big as his own, and he likes his fingers, long and spidery and so _Dean_.

He doesn't realize that he's saying this, speaking the name (a familiar name, but now it seems so foreign, so venomous on his tongue) and feeling the acid burning through his throat, through his chest. Dean makes a sound in response, and Sam thinks that it sounds pleased, and this pleases Sam. So he says the name again, this time louder, clearer, more forceful.

And Dean groans and it sounds frustrated and Sam _likes _that. He likes that sound a lot, wants to hear it again, so he pushes his hips up to slide against Dean's, and it works like this, feels so damn _good_. He can feel it through his clothes, and he can feel Dean's grip on his hands tighten, clutching at his fingers, cutting off the blood flow. But he doesn't mind, just ignores it; not too much pain, anyway. Nothing he can't deal with.

Why is it so hot? Sam can't breathe and is panting, is writhing beneath the older man, and to this Dean makes an annoyed sound. "Stop moving so much," he breathes out against Sam's lips, and his own are so close, too close. Sam is lightheaded and just wants to taste again, because his brother has a taste and it's something he remembers and wants again.

He feels so greedy.

And he pushes his head up and closes the gap between himself and his brother; for a moment there is no reaction, but then Dean's lips are firm on his own, and Dean is pushing Sam back against the bed, kissing him hard. Sam likes this roughness, and he wants more; God, he wants so much more ("So greedy," he can hear Dean saying in his mind. "Such a greedy little boy.").

Dean is not saying that, though. Instead he's parting his lips and letting his face slide against Sam's, breathing harshly into his ear, grinding himself down again and again and again. Electricity; is this what Sam has been missing? He grasps the top of Dean's pants and pushes him, pulls him down against himself. Yes, yes, that feels good. He bites his lips and throws his head back against the pillow.

His body is trembling and he doesn't know why, and he thinks absently that maybe this is a dream -- that he was the one that went out and got wasted, not Dean, and that he'll wake up any moment with his face on the cold gravel of a deserted parking lot. But it isn't cold here, anything but that, but he thinks that if it were he wouldn't mind, so long as Dean is there to--

Dean is tugging at Sam's pants, and Sam gasps and slides backward reflexively, head slamming against the headboard. He winces and groans in pain, and Dean tells him not to be stupid, to stay still if he wants this. And does he want it? Sam can think of so much that he's wanted in his life, things that he's desired but never possessed, and is this one of them? Dean's hands are unbuttoning Sam's pants with hasty fingers and hasty eyes, and wrenching the clothing down and off of him like it's on fire.

On fire. _Fire_ is the word Sam wants to use, the word to describe how his chest and throat and body feels. Dean's hands are wonderful and he loves them, loves the way they trace the patterns of his skin like a complex picture, a puzzle (and for a moment Sam feels important, feels almost beautiful in the way that perhaps he's more than a mystery than he had once thought).

There's a shallow grunt in his ear, and Sam shivers and is clinging to the back of Dean's shirt like a lifeline. _Let go, _he thinks, _don't let go. _There are hands on him and those hands are touching everywhere, fingers sliding against his arousal, making him jerk a little and find himself being pushed down against the mattress harder in return. He searches for Dean's lips almost blindly and moans when he finds them, and they taste so good and they taste like home.

Home is a thing he never misses, and he has Dean now and has him forever, he thinks, because forever is now and Dean is all he wants. He sighs against Dean's lips because Dean has stolen his breath, and there are touches that make him whimper and there are touches that make his fingers scrabble against the sheets below.

These touches; is it they that he wants, or is it Dean? His eyes are open now but he is not seeing, rather staring through Dean's eyes and into what is making Dean let them fall shut, what is making Dean rub himself against Sam's leg like that. It's a desperation Sam has never seen before, not this kind, not ever, and he doesn't know whether to like it or not.

He's undressed now and there is a faint chill that he thinks, absently, he should be able to feel more prominently; not a single article of Dean's clothing has been touched. Sam snakes his hands beneath the shirt and drags them across Dean's back, feeling the hot hot skin there. His fingers are shaking against flesh, flesh against flesh (and shivers against flesh; and Sam feels like there is nothing more).

Harsh pants, moans; Sam can't help these things, and he can't help the way he rocks his hips against Dean's touches, arches his back against the mattress and digs his fingers into the pillow under his head. He's saying things but not wording them, only speaking them in his mind, and all of the revolve around his brother, and all of them are absolutely _disgusting. _

"W-want you," he says, breathes out against Dean's lips. They're so close to his own, and he wants them again, but Dean is busy grinding down against Sam's leg, and he looks lost in this. His hold on Sam is hard and rough and uncontrolled, and Sam is thrusting into these movements and staring up at the ceiling with hollow eyes. His eyes are hollow and so is this room, and the world is lost.

Hollow, hollow, hollow.

Sam comes with a startled cry, body jerking up, eyes snapping open. A gasp flies out of him as though he'd been punched in the stomach, and for a moment he is staggering through the most delicious thing he's ever had, and it's what he wants, what he's always wanted, and to him this feeling is so _Dean_. He can't tell if he's said anything or if Dean has, but in seconds he is left trembling against the old old mattress, limp, unfeeling. He is numb and this must be what death feels like, he thinks.

This must be what life feels like.

He pushes up with nonexistent energy and brushes his lips against Dean's. "Sammy," he hears Dean say, and in the blindness he is lost.

And even if it were a dream, it would be okay (for now, not now, and for ever).


End file.
